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Old 07-12-2013, 01:48 AM   #1
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Cool Are We There Yet


I've taken a couple hits for being a grim, evil, humorless Shabnasticator.

Here is a couple of stories from when I was still Alive, the World was still Real and we still lived in the Present.

{I think the Present ended about 1985 or 86, since then we've slipped ahead and have been living in the Future, technically speaking...}

Go ahead and laugh at me—everyone else does.

Are We There Yet?

This happened back in the mid 90s, when I was dating Debra. Debra was the second of four disastrous love affairs that made me solemnly swear that I would never again date a black lesbian.

Yeah, go ahead and laugh at my expense. I didn't know that Mary was gay but I don't know how it slipped her mind. I mean she asked me out the first time, and offered to pay.

I think some of the guys at work told her how I preferred black women.

Up until I found out about Mary, I'd never known a lesbian—at least, not knowingly. Mary left me for another woman—and I made the mistake of crying on Debra's shoulder...

Maybe dating Debra wasn't one hundred percent bad though. She was the only one of the four that was a good person deep down inside. I ran into her a few years ago. She's married—to a man, of course—and they both attend a Baptist Church quite regularly.

Anyway, I only worked a half-day on Fridays. I went by Debra's house to take her out. There was a small neighborhood tavern across the street from her house and there was a skinny white guy sitting on the steps.

As we drove past, Debra asked me to stop.

"That Dude has been sitting there all morning. He's going to get in trouble hanging around in this neighborhood," She said.

I pulled up along side the curb. He was waiting for his brother and he needed a ride to Washington. I thought he meant Washington Avenue—woulda been a half mile detour.

Debra wanted to drive, so we swapped seats. Fairly early on, it became clear that our new friend wanted a ride to Washington Indiana.

"Debra, pull over and let this dude out of my car. He wants to go to the town of Washington—not the street."

"I don't know where Washington is," Debra said.

"Well I do. Take my word for it, we don't want to go there" I said.

Debra negotiated a hardcore deal—we got $50 for the ride, plus he was going to reimburse us for gas, based on how much gas it took to fill my tank, once we got to Washington—and Debra was going to hang onto his wallet and ID, till he'd made good.

Well, there was a little air in my brake lines. I told Debra that she needed to pump it two or three times before she put the Brake on in earnest.

Before we'd even gotten out of Evansville, she wanted me to drive.

We started heading north-east up Highway 57. We hadn't gone very far, when our rider started talking about how he liked to have sex with hookers. He said that his favorite hooker was Kandi Kane.

I never met Kandi—but word was, she was a dude who dressed like a woman and turned tricks. She killed herself—drowned herself in the mighty Ohio, if I remember correctly—a couple years before.

"You do know that she was a man don't you?" Debra asked him.

He shrugged. It was immaterial to him. He started talking downright crazy shortly after that. Once again, we changed the seating arrangement.

I drove. Debra was in the back seat and Father Kobbadah-Knobbadah was riding shotgun.

Debra brandished my hatchet.

"Do you see this? If you make one false move, I'm going to bury this hatchet in the back of your skull," Debra told him.

"I've died before. Ain't no big thing" Herr Nutzenheimer replied.

"Well just act up, and you will get a chance to die again," She said.

I don't really know how far it was to Washington. When I removed asbestos in Petersburg, I think I used to allow about 90 minutes to get there...

But the many miles of two lane highways, with an eight to twelve foot drop on each side, used to thoroughly intimidate me—and I never was a real fast driver anyway. Washington was about another hour further on.

There's a song about:

"The Corn is as high, as an Elephant's Eye..."

Well that’s how the cornfields were.

"Are we there yet?" Debra would ask about every three-and-a-half minutes.

After about the twenty-seventh time, it got kinda old.

"Debra, I told you that we did not wish to go to Washington. We have to go through Petersburg before we can get to Washington. We won't even be in Petersburg for a good long while yet. You won't miss Petersburg. Once we get through Petersburg, then you can resume your helpful inquiries..." I said.

"We are in Ku Klux Klan Country," Debra says.

"Not really," I counter.

"I'll bet if these Klan Dudes caught me, they'd run a stick through my rectum, and out through my throat. They'd stick a big sour-ass apple in my mouth, and bar-be-que me like a suckling pig, then eat me."

"Not really. Debra, a black person out here is a boilerplate rarity. People have to be in regular contact with black folk, to make them wanna organize a Klavern. Anyway, for the sake of argument—they might tar and feather you. They might even hang you...

"But they wouldn't eat you..." I tried to say.

Meanwhile, Debra has a death-grip on my hatchet, and is slumping lower and lower in the seat.

"Are we there yet?"

Well, when we get to the brother's house, he ain't home. I'm ready to cut bait, and accept my losses...

But at Debra's insistence:

We went by a sister's house, his mother's house, his father—who no longer shared a domicile with the mother—he was not at his house either.

We took him by to see his granny. Granny lives in a seven or eight story old folk's home—but as luck would have it, she's sitting on the lawn out front.

She gives Father Kobbadah-The-Knobadah everything she has on her—just enough to buy big fountain drinks for Debra and me, at the next convenience store we spot.

Now our star boarder wants to go to "Wheatville" or "Wheaton", or something.

I thought that he meant "Wheatonville", a small community just outside Evansville. I was in near despair, thinking of putting up with this freeloading kook for another two or three hours.

Then I realized that it was close to where we already were, so I relented.

This brother was home indeed.

"Hell no! I won't pay you for bringing him here--he's an escaped mental patient from the State Hospital in Evansville," Brother tells me.

"Debra, give the man back his wallet" I hissed.

"I think I'll hang onto it."

"Debra, if you give the man his wallet and we leave promptly, there will be nothing to tie us to this kook. Y'know, we done been unwitting accomplices."

Well, first Debra tries to talk them into feeding us, at least. When they refuse, she gets downright indignant, and wants to know if they're too good to break bread with a black woman.

Somehow I missed the turn-off to get back on 57. After going way out into the boonies—out where the screech owls rape the chickens—I stopped for directions—and to get Debra and me some food and drink.

(It was payday, after all. I couldn't readily afford all the gasoline that I'd wasted—but I was nowhere near as broke as I'd let on around the grazny lopslicker.)

Debra wouldn't go into the store—she was getting her paranoid on about the Kannibalistic Klan again.

But she did have to have a bowel movement—and I had to go into the restroom with her, and literally hold her hand, while she defecated.

By the time I figured out where I was, I was almost in Vincennes. I continued on till I hit 41, turned south and headed home.

So what did you do with your weekend?

Saxon Violence
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